


A Mustard Stain Over His Heart

by Pestilent_Orange



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Jughead's Sexuality is a Rich Tapestry, Pre-Canon, Profanity, sleepover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9672488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pestilent_Orange/pseuds/Pestilent_Orange
Summary: If he had been somewhere else, maybe sitting behind his computer in a booth at Pop's, trying to describe Betty Cooper from a safe distance, he would have said that she smelled like vanilla candles and fresh-baked snickerdoodles and strawberry lip gloss.But the truth of the matter, he found himself thinking as she inched open her bedroom door while he stood very close to her and psychically willed her parents tostay asleep, dammit, stay asleep, because Jughead did not fear many things in this life, but he feared Alice Cooper -- the truth of the matter was that Betty did not smell like those things either.





	

A pebble rattled against the second-floor window. 

"Psst. Andrews." 

It was after midnight, and the summer air was heavy with humidity and cicadas. 

A second stone bounced off the window frame.

"Hey, Archie, _Archie._ " 

The third rock he found -- after moving down two houses and rooting around blindly in Mrs. Perez's landscaping for five minutes -- was slightly larger than the first two, and he may have thrown it slightly harder than the first two. 

When it made contact with the window pane, there was the sound of shattering glass.

Jughead flinched. "Archie?" he tried one last time. 

In the distance, dogs were starting to bark, and lights in neighboring houses were appearing. The Andrews residence remained dark and silent, but he heard the sound of a window sash sliding open behind him. 

" _Jughead_. What are you doing?" 

Jughead sighed. He'd had plans for tonight -- namely, plotting out a summer road trip with his best friend, which would involve addressing such points as: **a)** what are the thematic/conceptual frameworks for our mixtapes? and **b)** what are our ratios regarding 'salty' and 'sweet' in regards to snack foods? and **c)** how much sleep do we _really_ need, especially with the judicious application of Red Bull and Mountain Dew? -- and he couldn't help feeling that approximately zero of those plans would be furthered by the addition of the girl next door. 

Need help with your pre-calculus homework? Call Betty Cooper. Want to know Sylvia Plath's zodiac sign? Call Betty Cooper. Need someone to help you rescue some stray kitten that had climbed out on the thinnest branch of the old oak tree in order to mewl piteously? Call Betty Cooper (and then apologize to her for about a week afterwards, staring at the red scratches still visible up and down her arms, because you can still hear her mother shrieking _it's infected, christ, why on earth_ while glaring at you in a way that will haunt your nightmares for years to come). 

He turned to look up at Betty. Her hair was in two golden braids, and since she was leaning halfway out of her window, he could tell that her loose T-shirt featured the image of a wide-eyed panda bear across her chest. Because of course Betty had panda pajamas. He couldn't tell from this angle, but he was willing to bet that she was wearing a matching set.

Acts of dubious legality? Do not call Betty Cooper. All-night video-game marathons? Do not call Betty Cooper. Figuring out how to drive for thirty-six hours without sleep? Do not call Betty Cooper; she would only tempt you away from the purity of your vision and the steeliness of your resolve. 

On the other hand, she might know where Archie was. 

"Cooper--" he started, and she frantically made a _shushing_ motion by flapping her hands before holding up a single finger against her lips. 

" _You are going to wake up my mom_ ," she said in a strained whisper. "And you don't want that to happen." 

Jughead swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Okay," he whispered back. "I'm just looking for--" 

"I can't hear you," she hissed down at him. 

"I _said_ , I'm looking--"

"Not so loud!" 

Jughead exhaled noisily and peered up at her. "Are you fucking with me, Cooper?" 

Betty flailed her arms in exasperation. "Wait there," she said, and then she disappeared from the window.

Jughead felt a perverse desire to disobey, which was his instinctive response to any command. He thought about making a break for it and sprinting down the street, but he stamped down the impulse. For one thing, he still wanted to find Archie. For another, he was pretty sure that, even if he had a head start, Betty could still outrun him. A few years ago, during a game of ostensibly touch football, she had tackled him to the ground with such force that he had lost consciousness for five minutes. 

Thirty seconds later, Jughead heard her front door open, and then Betty appeared at the side of her house. Her feet were bare and rustled against the blackness of the grass as she came forward.

"Hey," she said. "What's going on? Are you okay?" 

"I'm looking for Archie," Jughead shrugged. "He was supposed to stop by Pop's tonight, so we could discuss...things. About our road trip." 

"He's not here."

Jughead rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I got that far, Nancy Drew." 

"No, I mean, he's not in Riverdale," Betty said. "One of his aunts fell down a flight of stairs and had to go to the emergency room tonight. So he and his dad left a couple of hours ago to drive over, and I think they're still at the hospital." 

"Oh," Jughead said. "I...okay." 

"Did you text him?" Betty asked. 

"No," Jughead said. "Because yesterday that genius managed to drop his cellphone in the toilet, so I figured he was still beyond the reach of telecommunications."

Betty was staring up at Archie's window, which glittered jaggedly in the moonlight. "Did you _break_ it?" 

"Maybe," Jughead said. "I guess I'll have to explain it to Archie."

Betty frowned. "Well, sure, maybe just leave him a note on the front door, so he's not too...freaked out when he gets to his room and sees the broken glass." 

Jughead stuffed his hands in his pockets. He thought about writing that note and leaving, walking back past rows of identical pastel-colored houses until he reached...where? The neon lights of Pop's? The edge of the river? The dark end of the street? 

He closed his eyes against the thought. "Yeah, I'm not really a 'leave-an-apology-note' kind of guy, Cooper. A samurai commits his _seppuku_ in person, you know. So I'll just wait until he gets back." 

"Hey, that might be a while. What if they spend the whole night in the hospital?" 

"I guess I'll just have to make myself comfortable," Jughead said. "Settle in for the long haul." 

Betty was making a face that Jughead knew well; it was the face of a troubled Betty Cooper, a conflicted Betty Cooper, a Betty Cooper who dreaded conflict but not as much as she dreaded breaking rules and disregarding social norms. 

Jughead felt a flicker of resentment against her, and against Archie, and against the universe; this wasn't how he had planned to spend the evening. He was annoyed, and he was annoyed _that_ he was annoyed, because nobody was to blame and nobody had wronged him, and yet, look, here he was, an afterthought to Archie and an inconvenience to Betty, and now he was annoyed that he was annoyed about his annoyance. 

And it was that ouroboros of irritation that made him add, with a sarcastic lilt, " _Maybe_ I'll make a willow cabin at his gate and listen to the _babbling gossip_ of the air until he gets back." 

Despite the dim light, he saw Betty grimace. "I don't know why you still think that's so...funny." 

Jughead raised his eyebrows. "How was it _not_ funny? As soon as Mrs. Peyton wanted a volunteer for _Twelfth Night_ , your hand was up and quivering in the air, ooooh oooh, call on me, Mrs. Peyton, I can do it, I'll be a great Viola, I just love the character, it has nothing to do with the red-headed guy you just picked to play Duke Orsino!" 

It was too dark to tell, but Jughead was willing to bet that Betty had just flushed beet-red. "You're just jealous because she insisted that you play Toby Belch." 

"Pssh, of course I am. I'm Feste or I'm nobody, baby." 

Betty crossed her arms, which was an unfortunate gesture, because now it seemed as if the shirt's half-hidden panda was peering furtively over her arms at Jughead. "If you think you're just going to hang out here all night, I can _guarantee_ that one of our neighbors will eventually call the cops. If they haven't already." 

Jughead nodded. "Do you think Archie's dad would mind if I broke one of the kitchen windows and just let myself in the back? I mean, financially speaking, fixing two broken windows is probably about the same as fixing one, so--" 

"Oh, _Christ_ ," Betty said, in an entirely new voice, flinty and fierce, and Jughead looked at her in surprise. "Don't pretend you're such a tough guy. If you're going to insist on waiting for Archie, _like a maniac_ , then just come inside." 

Jughead glanced up at her open bedroom window. "Inside, Cooper?" he repeated. 

"Yeah, _Jones_. You can build your willow cabin in the comfort of my bedroom." 

"What about your mother?" 

"If I leave you out here, there's a strong possibility that she's going to look out, think you're a prowler, and maybe shoot you," Betty growled. "Just come inside and _use your inside voice_." She seized his elbow and tugged him forward. 

Jughead put up a weak show of resistance, but he allowed himself to be pulled along -- in part because he really did not want to commit further property damage against the Andrews residence, and in part because the idea of going back to Pop's seemed utterly exhausting, and in part because Betty Cooper was a lot stronger than she looked. 

Past some elaborately trimmed topiaries, Betty slowly turned the handle on her front door, painted such a deep crimson that it looked black in the dim light, and pushed it noiselessly open. 

"I feel like a ninja getting ready to assassinate the shogun," Jughead whispered into her ear. "Or maybe a gentleman cat-burglar in the French Riviera getting ready to...assassinate the shogun..." 

"Shut up," Betty whispered as she led him across the threshold. 

As she cautiously closed the door and began turning its locks, Jughead stood in the shadowy foyer of the Cooper home and breathed in its particular odor of antiseptic cleaners and flowery perfumes. It reminded him of a funeral home. 

That was not how Betty herself smelled, he found himself thinking as they crept up the stairs. If he had been somewhere else, maybe sitting behind his computer in a booth at Pop's, trying to describe Betty Cooper from a safe distance, he would have said that she smelled like vanilla candles and fresh-baked snickerdoodles and strawberry lip gloss.

But the truth of the matter, he found himself thinking as she inched open her bedroom door while he stood very close to her and psychically willed her parents to _stay asleep, dammit, stay asleep_ , because Jughead did not fear many things in this life, but he feared Alice Cooper -- the truth of the matter was that Betty did not smell like those things either. 

She smelled like clean hair and Tide detergent and some third, elusive scent that he could not quite--.

"Come _on_ ," she whispered as she pulled him into her room and shut the door. 

"Ow," Jughead said as he rubbed his arm. "I never knew you were so desperate to get me up here, Cooper." 

"Yeah, yeah," Betty said. She reached into the mass of floral pillows piled at the foot of her bed and shoved them all to the ground in a brightly colored avalanche. "Here, you can sit if you want." 

In the light of her bedroom, he noticed that her pajama bottoms did not match her panda shirt after all. Instead, her soft leggings were embroidered with tiny running foxes. 

"I'll stand," he said. "I've never been up here before. I want to investigate it thoroughly. And...hey, aren't you supposed to be gone by now?" 

This question was motivated by the sight of the wheeled suitcase lying open at the head of Betty's bed. It was sprouting the arms of shirts and the edges of skirts and -- he noted distantly from the corner of his eye, although he did not look directly at it -- one lacy white bra strap, which thrust upward from the roiling mass of clothing like a dainty tentacle. 

Betty rolled her eyes. "I leave for my internship tomorrow. Which you would have known if you'd come to my end-of-the-year party this weekend." 

Jughead gave her a sardonic smile. "Well, you know me. So many social engagements, so little time." 

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I'm still figuring out what to pack. That's why I'm still awake." She pulled out a yellow skirt from her suitcase and squinted down at it. "Am I going to need this skirt? I'm already packing three other skirts." 

"Mmm," Jughead said absently as he leaned forward to inspect the pictures and sketches thumb-tacked on her wall. He recognized Archie's dog Vegas in one of the paintings. 

"Am I really going to need four skirts? Or can I just, like, wear the same one multiple times...? But what if I spill something on it?" 

"That's a tricky one," Jughead said absently. "I say five. I mean, I always travel with five skirts. At a minimum. Also, Cooper, this room is _so_ pink." 

Betty began neatly lining balled-up socks in a row next to her suitcase. "I like pink." 

"Lotta roses."

"I like flowers." 

"Lotta lace." 

"Lace is pretty." 

"I can't help but wonder...like, when the bluebirds come in the morning to dress you, how do you consistently remember to keep your window open?" 

Betty snorted. "It's nice to be surrounded by things you like." 

"Oh, yeah? Did you pick out this decor? Or did your mom?" Jughead asked as he glanced across the photos hung in a motley assortment of frames: wooden popsicle sticks, metallic heart-shapes, ovals with sequins, severe black rectangles. 

"Obviously it was my mother," Betty said. "But she knows what I like." 

Other photos were jammed higgledy–piggledy into the edges of the mirrors flanking her vanity. A lot of the photos featured younger iterations of Betty: dressed up for an Easter egg hunt, carrying an inner tube at the edge of a river, wearing Mickey Mouse ears. In some of them, she was standing beside another blonde girl. And here was Archie, of course, throwing his pint-sized arms around a baby-faced Betty. And another Archie and Betty, now older, both solemn, holding up the second-place prize ribbon that they had won for their joint science-fair project in seventh grade. And here, in a recent photo, was Kevin, modeling a pair of sunglasses and pursing his lips seductively at the camera. 

And here, tucked away in one corner and nearly crowded out by its brethren, was a little three-inch portrait of Jughead. Fifth grade. The background was an abstract explosion of teal, and his hair hadn't been brushed in the prior week, and -- he suddenly remembered, with a feeling like a punch to the throat -- he had been wearing that shirt for three straight days before Picture Day (and then two days after), simply because nobody had noticed. (He could have been on fire for a week, and nobody would have noticed.) The photographer had told him to smile, so he had scrunched his eyes shut and bared his teeth in an animal grimace, and the photographer had fired his flash and tiredly sent him back to P.E. It was a terrible picture. Had he given a copy to Betty? He didn't remember doing that. 

"Your mom, huh?" he heard himself say. "But how would you decorate it yourself, if you had the chance?" 

"Me?" Betty shrugged. "I don't know. I probably wouldn't care that much about it, to be honest. So it would probably be...super-minimalist. And white. And empty." 

"Cooper, that is _such_ a lie. You know as well as I do what this place would look like, if you had the chance. It would be wall-to-wall posters of Zac Efron and Hannah Montana." 

Betty wrinkled her nose. "I'm not a child." 

"All evidence to the contrary," Jughead said, leaning against the wall. 

Betty was holding up a shirt the color of a robin's egg. "Is this too frilly? Or just frilly enough?" 

"Are you really asking me for fashion advice? How did I fall into this purgatorial state?" 

"Hey, sanctuary comes with a price, Juggie. I think you're right, though. Too frilly." 

She tossed the shirt to the floor and began rummaging through her suitcase again, which caused the upright bra strap to wave back and forth like a quivering antenna. 

Jughead dragged his eyes away and refocused them on Betty's face. Her eyes were narrowed intently on her suitcase, and her mouth was a thin, determined line, and her skin seemed curiously translucent, as if its network of blue and purple capillaries were _almost_ visible. She was not wearing the face that Jughead normally associated with her. Instead, her chin seemed newly fierce and her cheekbones sharper than before.

If he had been back in a booth at Pop's and clacking away at his laptop, he would have said that Betty was always sweet; Betty was always waiting to hear what you had to say; Betty was always hoping to help. 

He would have written: _Betty never broke the rules. Betty never invited boys up to her bedroom._

He tilted his head back and watched her from under lowered eyelids. As she flung the rejected clothing down to the floor, he could smell the odor of fabric softener in the air. 

Jughead was suddenly conscious of his own shirt: flannel and plaid and from Goodwill. It always smelled like cigarette smoke, and more recently it had developed a mustard stain over his heart. Jughead couldn't remember the last time he had washed it. 

He wondered how he smelled to Betty. Or did all the perfumes and fragrances and scents in this house cover up whatever reek he was trailing? 

Jughead rubbed his eyes roughly, and when he opened them again, Betty was looking at him with concern. 

"Hey," she said. "You look tired. Do you want to lie down?" 

Jughead silently and pointedly glanced at the suitcase on her bed. 

"Oh, no, I meant, like, the floor, you could lie down on the floor," she said, and then she blinked and make a scornful laughing noise. "Wait, did you seriously think that you were going to sleep _in my bed_? No way! I said you could hide out here tonight, but not that we were going to... I mean, Jughead! Come on!" 

He dramatically pressed his hands to his chest. "My heart breaks, Cooper. Does this mean that we're not going to spoon?" 

"Definitely not," Betty muttered as she pulled out a pair of glossy black Mary Janes and set them to one side. 

"Does this mean we're not going to giggle under the covers and gossip about _boys_?" 

"No." Betty paused. "Wait, boys? Is there something you want to tell me, Jughead?" 

The edges of Jughead's mouth turned downward. "There's absolutely nothing I want to tell you, Cooper." 

"Okay. All I'm saying is, I'm a good listener. If you want to tell _somebody_ something. Ever."

"I have nothing to tell anyone," he said. 

She mock-pouted as she began folding a shirt into a tidy square. "It's not good to keep things bottled up, Jughead. It's not healthy."

"Are you implying, Cooper, that I'm not an open book?" 

"Perish the thought, Juggie. You're the most open person we know." She shook her head sadly. "Sometimes we wonder if you're maybe _too_ open, though. Sometimes we think, man, if only Jughead was a little more...closed off? And stand-offish? And sarcastic? I mean, I know it's hard to imagine, but, like, _what if_?" 

"Whoa," Jughead said, smiling but a little bit stung at the same time. "Was that actual _snark_? Who are you? And what have you done with Betty Cooper?" 

"Hey, I can be snarky." 

"Not in my experience." 

She rolled her eyes. "For someone who's known me since elementary school, Jughead, sometimes you don't know me at all." 

"Yeah? Well, it's mutual, Cooper."

She paused. "I think I know you pretty well." 

"Eh," Jughead said. "'Stand-offish?' 'Sarcastic?' That's a pretty shallow reading of me, man. Reggie Miller could do better than that, and Reggie Miller is a walking lobotomy. But whatever, man. All I'm saying is, you don't have me all figured out."

She was watching him now, and her eyes had an unsettling gleam. "I know _something_ about you, Jughead." 

He winced, despite the fact that he was reasonably sure his secrets were still deep and hidden and silent. "It doesn't count if it's shit that Archie told you. I'm sure he tells you all kinds of things." 

"It's nothing Archie told me," Betty said, and Jughead couldn't help but notice she didn't deny the fact that Archie talked about him to her. 

"Yeah? Okay, what is it? What do you know? What have you divined about my dark and twisted soul?" 

"I know that you're afraid that Archie doesn't want to go on this road trip with you."

Jughead stared at her. "What the _fuck_ , Cooper?" 

Betty blinked, and her mouth twisted into a guilty moue. "I mean...I'm not saying that _he_ doesn't want to go, I'm saying that _you're_ afraid--" 

Jughead had crossed his arms, his shoulders hunching upward as if he were cradling something against his chest. "Has he said something to you?"

" _No_ ," Betty cried, almost a wail, as she dropped the shirt she was holding. "No, of course not, Juggie, he would _never_ , I mean, as far as I know, he's really excited about it." She reached out a placating hand as she rounded her mattress and came up to him. "He's definitely really excited. He told me. He talks about it all the time." 

"You can be honest with me," Jughead said flatly. "Just tell me. It's better for me to know now." 

" _Ugh_ ," Betty said, seizing him by the shoulders and forcing him to look her in the eyes. She spoke rapidly, without blinking. "It's just so clear that _you're_ paranoid about whether or not he wants to go. I mean, you walked all the way here in the middle of the night just to _double-check_ that he's still committed. I mean, remember last week? You spent _days_ waiting for him to want to talk about the route you were going to take, and you got so irritated that he wasn't thinking about it, but you wouldn't just _ask_ him about it, so instead you just waited and stewed and then you spent a full forty-five minutes complaining about it to me and Kevin after the end-of-the-year assembly." 

Jughead tried to recoil, but Betty's grip was unwavering. "I didn't realize that my summer plans were such a boring ordeal for you two," he said. 

"Oh, you have _no_ idea," Betty said, her eyes flashing. "It was _so_ boring; it was _incredibly_ boring; it set new standards for how I define the word 'boring' itself. I mean, Kevin _timed_ you. That's how I know it was forty-five minutes! Just you railing about Archie's inability to plan anything, ever, in exhaustive detail, and why this meant that your summer road trip was doomed, doomed, _doooooomed_." And with each of these last three words, Betty gave Jughead a shake that rattled his entire torso. 

"Well--" Jughead started to say, nasal and emphatic, when Betty's fingers tightened painfully around his arms and a look of panic flashed across her face. 

"Oh, shit," she said. "That's my-- _get down_." 

The next moment, Jughead found himself hitting the carpet beside the bed with Betty's surprisingly strong hands slammed against his shoulder, pressing him down. 

He opened his mouth against the fuzz of the peach carpet, and then Betty's bedroom door opened, and Jughead stopped breathing. 

"Betty?" he heard her mother say. "What _are_ you doing?" 

"Oh, hey, mom," Betty trilled, standing up and moving forward, and Jughead, who was frantically wondering if he could somehow wiggle soundlessly _under_ her bed, watched her bare feet appear in his field of vision on the other side of the bed. "I'm still trying to figure out what to pack." 

"I heard...were you talking on the phone, honey?" 

"The phone? At this time of night? Oh, I was just talking to myself, mom. You know, trying to talk myself out of bringing a peplum dress. I mean, yes, Betty, it's totally your color, but no, Betty, peplum is _so_ 2013." 

There was a single scrunched-up sock under Betty's bed, right next to Jughead's head, and he found himself focusing on it in its every detail. It appeared to be printed with rows of cartoon frogs. Were they laughing? Were they screaming? It was hard to tell. 

"Betty, it's past one, and we're leaving for the airport in seven hours. You need to go to sleep, honey." 

Betty issued a high-pitched giggle. "Sorry, mom! Omigosh, I'm just so _excited_ that I don't think I could sleep even if I wanted to!" 

Even in the grips of his current terror, Jughead rolled his eyes. 

He heard her mother sigh. "I know that feeling. I've been tossing and turning all night."

Betty clucked sympathetically. "That sucks, mom. You should take a sleeping pill or something." 

"Honey, I have to get up in a few hours. I can't take a pill _now_." 

"Awww," Betty said. "Then just take half a sleeping pill. Half a sleeping pill! And I promise that I'll make sure you're awake in plenty of time to drive me to the airport." 

Another sigh. "Well...okay. But make sure I'm up by seven, okay? And you need to go to sleep now as well, young lady." 

"Of _course_ ," Betty cooed. "I'm going to keep packing for another fifteen minutes, and then I'm _definitely_ going to go to sleep and have the most epic power-nap, and awake totally refreshed and ready to go. So don't worry! Take that sleeping pill! Go to sleep!"

"Okay. Good night, honey."

"Good night, mom!" 

The door closed. Jughead let out a shaky breath. 

Betty appeared on his side of the bed and looked down at him. "Hey. Sorry for shoving you down there." 

"No," Jughead whispered. "It was quick thinking. Good job, man." 

"Yeah," she said softly. She was breathing rapidly, and from the ground, Jughead could see her fingers tapping frantically against her palm. 

Without breaking eye contact, Jughead slowly stretched out on his back and folded his hands behind his head. "I feel weirdly vulnerable, Cooper. You've already cut me to the quick. Do you want to step on me now to complete your conquest?" 

Betty went still, her fingers suddenly slack, and then she snorted. "Do you want me to step on you, Jughead?" 

"Not really," Jughead said, firmly ignoring the confusing inner voice that said, suddenly, _maybe?_

With a loud thump, Betty dropped to the ground and sat, cross-legged, beside him. "Well. The good news is that my mother is about to be dead to the world." 

"Yeah," Jughead said. "I'm impressed that she's still going to be able to drive you to the airport in the morning." 

Betty's sudden smile was wide and venomous. "Oh _no_ , Dad! What do you mean Mom is still sleeping? Guess you're the one that's going to have to drive me to airport! Guess you're _not_ going to give me a lecture about keeping my legs closed and my mace close all summer! Aw, shucks, but see you both in three months! Tell Mom that I am _so_ sorry to miss some magical mother-daughter bonding this morning!" 

"Whoa," Jughead said. "Masterfully played, Cooper. Respect." He extended a fist, and she delicately bumped it. 

"Thanks," she said. "And...I'm sorry I said anything about Archie. You guys are going to have a great road trip this summer."

Jughead shrugged. "We'll see." 

"No, you will," Betty said, and when Jughead avoided her eyes, she languorously stretched out her legs and lay down beside him. "You'll have the best road trip ever," she whispered. 

Jughead was silent. 

"What were you going to discuss with him tonight, Juggie? Why'd you walk all the way from Pop's?" 

A pause, and then Jughead said, reluctantly, "Logistics." 

"What kind of logistics?"

"Oh, you know. The standard logistics. Like 'what kind of music are we going to listen to, Archie?'"

Betty's mouth was close enough to his head that he could feel the faintest touch of her breath against his ear. "So. What kind of music are you going to listen to?" 

"It depends. I was planning to make a strong case for Johnny Cash. And Ryan Adams. Maybe some Morrissey and the Clash. I have a feeling that Archie is going to insist on some heavy rotation of Adele in the mix, though." 

"That sounds nice," Betty said, a little wistfully. "It will be a fun road trip." 

"It won't be _fun_ , Cooper. It'll be a coming-of-age odyssey in which we drink deeply from the well of lived experience and get in touch with the backroads and by-ways of our great country." 

"Yeah," Betty said. "Like I said. Fun."

There was a long pause, and the only sound was the sound of Betty's breath whispering across the shell of his ear. 

"I'm sorry," he said abruptly. 

"Why are you sorry?" she asked, a little muzzily, and he realized that she had been on the verge of falling asleep. 

"I'm sorry that we didn't invite you to go on our road trip," Jughead said. 

"Oh," Betty said. "That's okay. I wouldn't have been able to go, anyway. Because of my internship." 

"Even so," Jughead said. 

"And I'm not sure I want to spend seventy-two hours in a car with you and Archie and Adele and the well of lived experience," she added. 

"Even so," Jughead said. 

"But I guess it would have been a nice gesture--" she said. 

And then she stopped, because they had both heard it at the sound time: the engine of a car pulling into the driveway next door. 

"Archie!" Betty said, scrambling to her feet. She dashed over to the open window and cupped her hands around her mouth. " _Archie_ ," she exhaled in the loudest whisper known to man. 

Jughead stood up and craned his head to peer over her shoulder. "Is he down there?" 

A dim figure stood below. "Betty? _Jughead_?" 

Jughead leaned farther out the window, and Betty made an indignant noise as she was inexorably shoved to one side. "Hey, man. Don't freak out about your window." 

Even in the moonlight, Archie's confusion was visible. "Window? What window? What's going on?" 

Betty muscled her way back as they both tried to shove their heads through the window frame. "It's your bedroom window, Archie." 

Archie tilted his head to one side. "What?"

"It was an accident, man," Jughead said, a little breathlessly, because they were both hanging halfway out the window and Betty was angrily wiggling against him and their bodies were jammed up against one another. "But you're were supposed to be at Pop's!" 

"Oh," Archie said, leadenly. "I forgot. There was an accident, so--" 

"Hey, gang?" This new voice belonged to Archie's father, who had appeared at the side of the house. "Can we have this conversation tomorrow? It's very late, and you guys are _very_ loud." 

"Sorry, dad," Archie mumbled. 

"Sorry, Mr. Andrews," Jughead said. 

Archie's father stared up at him. "Uh...do you want to come over, Jug? Spend the night? Because I can't imagine why you're over _there_ , but..." 

"I'll be right over," Jughead said as he pulled himself back from the window with all the force of a popped champagne cork. 

"See you tomorrow morning, Archie," Betty called softly, and Archie's response was too indistinct for Jughead to hear. 

She turned back to face Jughead. "Come on," she said. "Let's smuggle you out of here. I hope my mom took that sleeping pill." 

Jughead blinked at her. "Are you saying that there's a chance that your mom might still be awake? Lying in bed, with nothing to distract her from the sounds of a _teenage boy creeping out of her daughter's bedroom_?" 

Betty strode forward and seized him by the wrist, and her palm felt icy and hard against his skin. "I mean, even if my mom's not doing that, my dad _definitely_ is. But come on, Juggie. Live a little," she said as she dragged him forward and flung open the door. "Come and drink deeply from the well of lived experience." 

They tumbled together into the hallway, and as Betty dragged him to the head of the stairs, and as he felt himself tipping forward to stumble vertiginously down the steps, Jughead felt weirdly terrified and electrified in equal measure. 

He tripped on the last step, and for a moment it seemed as if they would both go down together in a thunderous tangle of limbs and profanity, but then Betty locked her elbow and somehow managed to keep him upright until he had found his footing again. 

And Jughead thought, as they staggered through the Cooper foyer: _This is not how I expected to spend my evening._

And then he thought: _On the next journey Archie and I take, we'll bring Betty too._

  
  



End file.
